by Shirl Henke
"I wonder ... hmmm," he mused, cool green eyes fixed steadily on her.
Joss resisted the urge to fidget under his basilisk gaze. "Why do you dislike me so, Mr. Drummond?"
"Odd, I was about to ask you the same question. Do you always strike out so boldly? Perhaps it's part of why Alex has been so taken with you. Colonials are a cheeky lot themselves."
"You have not answered my question," Joss persisted. Two could play at the game of intimidation, she decided.
Drum sighed and the brittle mask slipped from his face for an instant. "I find, much to my surprise and chagrin, Miss Woodbridge, that I no longer dislike you. It might amaze you to know that I suspect we may have something in common—but that is of no moment," he added quickly, shifting back to his familiar, drawling amusement. "Let us resolve to be civil to each other from this day onward. Perhaps in time, who knows?" he added expansively as he raised a carefully positioned pinch of snuff on his wrist. "We might even come to be friends."
Joss considered his rather startling suggestion, then nodded. "I have never thanked you for saving Alex's life."
Drum chuckled. "He was in bad loaf that night. Started out a veritable mushroom after a few hours at the hazard tables, all puffed up with his winnings. Quite foxed, too, else I doubt that slattern could have lured him down the alley."
"What makes men do such foolish things?"
"Wine, women and cards?" Drum shrugged. " 'Tis the nature of the beast, m'dear. The way he lives ... it upsets you, does it not?"
"His life is desperately dangerous. I see every reason to be concerned."
"Most especially about the women, I warrant," he replied, studying her reaction.
Joss stiffened. "Strong drink and gambling are equally damning."
He chuckled but it was gentle laughter. "Spoken like a good little Methodist, but you feel more than religious zeal for our rakehell comrade."
"He is my friend as he is yours."
Drum nodded. 'Too true, m'dear, altogether too true...."
* * * *
By dusk Alex returned with Montgomery Caruthers and a stern-faced Anglican priest. After viewing the disheveled bride and groom in their filthy, torn clothing, he wished nothing so much as to perform the ceremony and be gone. Joss and Alex stood before the cleric, speaking their vows with nervous solemnity while Monty and Drum acted as witnesses.
Drum's usual veneer of foppish indolence was discernibly absent. He studied the bridal couple with keen interest, seemingly quite preoccupied. Although the baron announced that the unlikely match was a marvelous joke on the priggish old earl, his amusement was also tempered with a certain watchfulness.
When the simple exchange was over and the final benediction given, the priest beat a hasty exit. Monty raised Joss's hand in a proper salute, welcoming her into the family. After slapping Alex on the back in congratulation, he suggested an evening at Whites to Drum, who opined that the whist tables beckoned him like a siren. Alex and Joss were left alone after what seemed a startling blur of events.
Feeling suddenly awkward, Alex said, "While Uncle Monty was securing the license, I made arrangements for that place on Chapel Street I spoke of earlier. If you don't like it, we shall secure other lodgings as soon as possible."
"I'm certain it will be quite adequate, Alex." Did her voice squeak? Good Lord, she hoped not, but her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. She forced herself to meet his eyes and continued, "Remember, I was raised in humble circumstances. The Fin and Feather was quite the nicest place in which Papa and I ever lived. I trust your good taste implicitly."
"Well, in that case, shall we go, Mrs. Blackthorne?"
When he offered her his arm, she felt positively lightheaded. What have I done? She could have drowned in his liquid brown eyes. They were warm, caring ... Get a hold of yourself, Joss, she scolded, taking his arm. He loved her platonically, as a friend.
But this is your wedding night, a voice cried out from the depths of her soul as they left Drum's flat and walked out into the soft spring air.
Chapter Eleven
Joss sat before a crackling fire in her upstairs parlor. Logs snapped and popped, giving off a cheery glow to dispel the chill of the spring rain that had begun falling sometime after midnight. After Alex left, she could not sleep, in spite of the late hour. Joss sat alone, pondering the day's incredible events. Mrs. Alexander Blackthorne. Repeating the words aloud did not make them sound any more believable.
Yet here she sat in his elegant town house, only a few doors down from the Beau's famous address. Her upper-story quarters were commodious in the extreme, the sitting room furnished with delicate French furniture and Tabriz carpets, all done in shades of muted blue and gold. There was a master bedroom and a smaller one adjoining it, as well as a library of sorts with ample room on the shelves for her books, the only material possessions she had ever owned.
Her surroundings were luxurious, her finances secure and she was free to resume her life's work. Why then did she sit staring into the flames feeling more desolate than she ever had in her life, worse even than the day her father was buried? The answer, of course, was Alexander Blackthorne. Her husband.
He had been so quiet, so constrained by courtesy on the carriage ride to their new home. Alex, her laughing, teasing comrade in whose company she had always felt more supremely at ease than with any other person alive. That dear Alex seemed to be gone. The man who was now her husband acted unsure of what to say or do around her, awkward and uncomfortable.
Not that Joss herself felt any more at ease. What did one say to a husband under such contrived circumstances? She recalled his awkward pause when they reached the downstairs entrance to their new residence. She was certain that he was wondering whether it was appropriate to sweep her up into his arms and carry her across the threshold as was traditional. But the moment fled as he debated. She imagined that he decided she would think such behavior inappropriate.
Instead, he had simply unlocked the door and ushered her into the foyer with its highly polished marble floor, then given her a cursory tour of the first-floor library, dining room and sitting room. After hastily mentioning that his sleeping quarters and the kitchen were down the interior hallway, he had escorted her upstairs to her domain, taking care to point out the private entrance at the side of the house that he would use for his late-night activities.
They had chatted about inconsequential matters, any redecorating that she might choose to do, arrangements for moving their belongings to the new accommodations, hiring servants. He had arranged a cold collation to be set out by the cook who came with the place. While they dined downstairs, they considered how to deal with the earl. At least that was one matter of substance they could discuss.
Hovering in the background were the unspoken fears of both bride and groom that they had made a precipitous mistake. They no longer felt at ease in each other's company. All Alex's earlier charming insistence and enthusiasm for his impetuous proposal seemed to have fled with the harsh finality of the priest's words: "I now pronounce you man and wife."
Joss had tried desperately to conceal her true feelings about the marriage. Had she somehow, by a look or a touch, some word or action, betrayed her absurd longing? She had gone over and over every hour since she had come to his office in the warehouse, reviewing each moment until the mysterious messenger had arrived just as they were concluding their evening repast. She could think of nothing she had done that could have alarmed Alex, which left only the obvious—he was appalled at being leg-shackled to a tall, homely female with a willful temperament and an unconventional reputation.
Small wonder he had fled without revealing the nature of his summons, saying only that he did not know when he would return. She should not wait up for him. Implicit in his words was the suggestion that they would begin their arrangement immediately. He had departed to pursue his old life on the town and she was left to ascend the stairs to her quarters. Alone.
Being deserted on her weddin
g night should not have hurt so much. After all, she had known this would be no true marriage. She had certainly not expected to share his bed. But neither had she thought he would bolt from their house the way he had. What was in the missive sent by his uncle's servant? Probably nothing more serious than an invitation from one of his Cyprians, in whose arms he now reposed.
"Try not to think of that, Joss. You've made your solitary bed and now you must lie in it," she chided herself. There was no point in being morose or in dwelling on his liaisons with beautiful women. There would doubtless be a procession of them discreetly filing into his quarters after tonight.
All she could do was resolve to win back his friendship. After all, she had been given a splendid opportunity to share a much larger portion of Alex's life than she had known before. They could grow closer as confidants, living in such proximity. This arrangement would work. She would make certain that it did.
But what the devil was written in that accursed note...?
* * * *
As he climbed down from the hackney, Alex was surprised at the modest facade of the residence, considering the importance of the person living there. When he knocked on the heavy oak door, it swung open immediately and a somber servant ushered him down the hallway into a small, crowded library. A birdlike man with stooped shoulders and sharp gray eyes crossed the room, extending a veined hand slightly smudged with ink.
"Welcome, Mr. Blackthorne. I greatly appreciate your coming."
"Your message indicated considerable urgency, Mr. Russell," Alex replied, returning the surprisingly firm handshake. "How may I be of service to you, sir?" Alex was at a loss as to why he had been summoned to this meeting with the American charge d'affaires.
"Before we continue, Mr. Blackthorne, I must have your word of honor not to divulge anything discussed here with anyone, whether you decide to help us or not."
Alex considered. "I must confess your clandestine summons has piqued my curiosity. Very well, you have my word."
"Please be seated. I'll be as brief as possible. My agents inform me that you are acquainted with Colonel Sir Rupert Chamberlain and his wife Lady Cybill."
A sardonic smile fleetingly touched Alex's lips. "If your intelligence is half as good as I suspect, you know the colonel and I dueled. He was severely injured, and he and his
wife have both dropped from sight," Alex replied.
"We have just learned Colonel Chamberlain has been dispatched on a secret mission with several ships under his command."
"With all due respect, sir, I find that difficult to believe. His sword hand was rendered useless—surely his military career has ended."
The diplomat shrugged. "Apparently Sir Rupert is a more resourceful man than you imagined. We need to know where he is taking those ships and what their mission is. If he has sailed to join Wellington, it is of little consequence. However, if he sailed for Mobile Bay ... With the tense situation between Britain and the United States over American land claims in Spanish Florida, a man like Chamberlain could be highly dangerous."
Thoroughly confused, Alex replied, "Sir, I am no spy. I fail to see how I might procure this information."
With a wry chuckle, the elderly statesman continued. "Only the past week Lady Cybill has returned to London and resumed her social schedule. She did at one point exhibit a certain tendresse for you, did she not? You possess a remarkable reputation with the ladies and you have entree to the highest circles of British society through your mother's family."
"I will not use my uncle or any member of my family to gain information—not even for the United States," Alex replied stiffly.
"I am not asking you to do so, my boy. Surely you feel no such loyalty to Mrs. Chamberlain? The information we seek is vital to the safety of your country...not to mention your people in the Creek Confederation."
For the past year his father's letters had been full of concern that the British had agents stirring up the Red Sticks, a faction of the Muskogee who wanted to drive out all whites from their tribal lands. Alex knew his people would be mere pawns if they allied with the British. Running his hands through his hair, he considered a moment longer, then capitulated. "You do your research quite thoroughly, Mr. Russell."
"Then you shall do it?" Jonathan Russell's keen gray eyes glowed with triumph.
Alex nodded with an ironic smile. "If you think Lady Cybill will be so foolish as to whisper British Foreign Office strategy in my ear, I'll try to learn what I can from her."
"Splendid, Mr. Blackthorne, splendid."
"There is one more thing, however. If I learn anything that materially affects my father's people, I will warn him about it." He watched as the ambassador considered.
"I suppose that is only fair," Russell said at length.
"Then we have an agreement," Alex replied, rising from his seat.
"I knew your country could rely on you."
Alex shook the charge d'affaires's hand saying, "Now I'll just have to see if I can rely on Lady Cybill."
"From what I have heard regarding your prowess with women, I should think she will fall in line quite handily. There is a ball at Lord Aston's Tuesday next. Mrs. Chamberlain will attend. If you would like—"
"No, I prefer to reacquaint myself with the lady in my own way," Alex said as they walked to the door. He considered informing Russell about his recent marriage, then decided against doing so. It would require too many explanations regarding his personal life and Joss's. He felt suddenly protective of her and did not want their arrangement to be the subject of gossip or speculation.
Little chance of avoiding that, he supposed, once it became obvious that the marriage was one that fettered neither spouse. Joss's crusade among the indigent would continue to horrify Suthington while her husband would acquire yet another in his succession of mistresses.
As he climbed into a hackney, he thought with a twinge of amusement that there would be one unexpected benefit of this peculiar assignment. Constanzia had grown annoyingly possessive of late. He was pleased to have an excuse for pensioning off the beauteous Spaniard.
* * * *
In keeping with her wedding night vow, Joss confronted Alex the following day and made clear her determination that they should resume their old friendship as if the marriage had never taken place. Alex seemed relieved at her declaration and pledged that he would treat her just as he had before the wedding. He even apologized for his absence the preceding night, although he did not give any reason for his abrupt departure.
Together they called upon the earl to announce their nuptials, which were written up in all the newspapers the following day. The interview with Suthington was ugly in the extreme and ended with the apoplectic old man calling down the wrath of heaven on them for such perfidy. Afterward Alex and Joss shared a good laugh over the unliklihood of anyone in the firmament heeding an invocation from Everett Woodbridge. Joss suspected that the earl was secretly relieved to be rid of his unmanageable niece and her hound from hell.
In the weeks that followed, they each went their separate ways, attempting to rebuild their previous lives as if the marriage did not exist, which in fact it did not. They saw each other little more than they had before. Joss rose with the dawn to begin her tasks at hospital and school while Alex slept late, spending afternoons at the shipping office and his nights in clubs and gaming hells. They did from time to time share a brief luncheon or afternoon chat. On the surface, their friendship had been renewed, but it remained irrevocably altered.
The spring of 1812 was cool and tranquil, although the political situation was not. When American forces moved into the Gulf Coast region surrounding the Bay of Mobile, the British government sent a harshly worded protest and the two nations slid another step closer to war. Heartened by favorable reports from Wellington on the peninsula, Britain was in no mood to brook insolence from her brash, land-hungry former colonists.
Closer to home, the ton was utterly titillated by gossip about the smoldering relationship between the wi
cked American and Colonel Chamberlain's beautiful wife. They were seen together dancing at balls and riding on Rotten Row. The fact that both were married only added spice to the forbidden stew. After all, wasn't it Alex Blackthorne who had crippled Lady Chamberlain's husband in that infamous duel? And wasn't Jocelyn Blackthorne the reforming zealot who shocked London by running away from the Earl of Suthington's household to elope with the American? How utterly delicious it all was!
Alex's pursuit of Cybill Chamberlain proceeded according to plan. The lascivious lady eagerly responded to his advances, fairly gloating with satisfaction when he encountered her in public. The problem was, Alex found that he did not enjoy the chase as he always had in the past. He ascribed this disconcerting fact to his ulterior motives and her marital state, not his own.
His life was on course, he assured himself. Work at the shipping office was going smoothly and his luck at the gaming tables had been especially good of late. Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, he mused.
"A penny for your thoughts, darling," Cybill purred, pressing her breasts against his shoulder as she leaned around to nuzzle his throat and brush his lips.
They were standing by a huge bow window overlooking the rose gardens at the Marquess of Brownlea's country estate, where they had been invited for a weekend of hunting and parties. Alex turned into her eager arms, expertly moving her behind the cover of the draperies as he returned her kiss.
Cybill Chamberlain was a beauty, no doubt about it. Her raven hair gleamed with a blue-black luster and lush, milk- white breasts spilled from the top of her low-cut gown. He looked down into brilliant violet eyes framed by thick black lashes. "The marchioness will send us packing if you persist in such public displays, pet."
"Bother the old biddy, everyone in London knows we're having an affair," she replied as one busy hand insinuated itself inside his waistcoat and slid beneath his shirt, while the other one rubbed the bulge in his trousers with practiced, deft fingers.